


You Can Be As Loud As You Like

by LittleMousling



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Attempted Seduction, Loud Sex, Multi, OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 13:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12818082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling
Summary: If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.





	You Can Be As Loud As You Like

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat hasty chatfic, written for the joy and leisure of the Friday after Thanksgiving! 
> 
> Keep it secret, keep it safe, etc--thank you!

Jon Lovett has the world's noisiest and horniest upstairs neighbors. 

He puts up with it for three weeks, and then goes up to tell them off. It does not solve the problem, but it does make him frustratingly aware that they are flushed and gorgeous and charming and heterosexual. 

That at least makes it a more appealing prospect to go and yell at them again. Besides, they seem to find him amusing, and the third time he goes up there, the wife—Emily—gives him a chocolate truffle as a gesture of apology. It’s quite a good truffle. He eats it and tries not to think too hard about the purpling bite marks the husband—Jon—had on his throat when they came to the door. 

Somewhere around the fifth time he goes up, they seem really excited to see him. "Lovett! Come in, do you want a beer?" Emily's hair is a mess, and Jon's not wearing a shirt. He _knows_ they finished, because after the horrific error in judgment he made the second time, he doesn't interrupt them. That route ends in madness. He waits until he hears the distinctive noises and then the quiet sweet nothings they never seem to forget to exchange, the I Love Yous and You're So Beautifuls. 

Lovett's had good relationships but these two are downright saccharine, and yet in person they're—basic, maybe, and the culturally straightest people he's ever met, but also witty and sharp and sarcastic in turns, not ditzy at all.

In person, in their kitchen, they and their dynamics are hot. With Emily, it’s more an aesthetic hotness. Jon is hot in a way that means Lovett only jerks off in the shower now so they don't hear him mumbling _Jon, Jon_ under his breath.

He starts coming over regularly because they keep inviting him and they always have food. Emily's home more than Jon, and she'll cuddle up with him on the couch while they watch stupid TV. Their apartment is always warm, and she wears practically nothing. It means that whenever Jon gets home, Lovett gets to see the way Jon spots her and runs his eyes over her, appreciatively. He gets to see the way she watches him back, the way they both want each other. Mostly he finds excuses to clear out, and tries to go for a walk instead of going to his apartment. They know, now, that he can hear them. He knows that they know. It's a whole—it's confusing.

Sometimes, lately, he doesn't leave, and doesn't take hints, and they get antsy and flushed and try not to be. They don't try very hard. 

He hears them at night, most nights. Maybe they think he's gone to sleep. Maybe, he tries not to think, reaching down to stroke himself, maybe they know he hasn't, and they want him to hear.

They watch the Oscars together, getting drunk and making fun of the outfits, the speeches, each other. Emily's between them and she's cuddling with both of them, all three of them pressed tight together on the couch. Lovett can't help but be aware of the two of them getting heated up as they drink; he's feeling it, too, thinking about Grindr. He dismisses the idea; he's not having a stranger over when he's drunk, and it's—he doesn't let himself linger on the other reasons. The other reasons are ridiculous.

He lets himself out when the credits roll, Jon and Emily hugging him but obviously thrilled to be alone, too. He hears something through their door before he even gets down the stairs to his own apartment, and then it's like full surround-sound audio, they're so loud. "God, take your—that's—oh— _baby_ ," talking over each other, none of it quite comprehensible. 

Except, then: "Lovett," and a sharp, masculine groan. "—let him—" and Lovett's scrambling into his kitchen for a glass and a stepstool. He's too fucking short, he needs—his headboard, he can step up onto the firm top of his headboard and just stretch up to get his ear on the glass and—

Emily's strong voice saying, "if Lovett was fucking you," comes through loud and clear, and Lovett loses his footing and falls, hard, onto his mattress. 

He lies there, breath knocked out of him. There's silence from upstairs. Did they hear him? What did they hear—a crash? Did he shout something as he was fumbling?

He's almost got his breath back when there's a knock on the door.

"Lovett?" Jon calls through the door. "Are you okay?"

He very much wants to lie here and pretend to not exist, but they'll definitely keep knocking, and he does have other neighbours. He gets up and walks to the door, sets the mercifully unharmed glass down on the entry table. He opens it. They're in fucking bathrobes. This is his goddamned life. "I'm fine. I fell. Don't let me interrupt." 

Emily's face flushes pink. "Uh, that's, um, okay. How did you—it's, like, midnight, what were you doing?"

Lovett's not about to answer that question. "It's midnight, I'm unharmed, go back to your own home. Don't you have work in the morning? It's Sunday. Not all of us are shut-ins with development deals. So—" he makes a pushing gesture with his hands. "See you later."

"You don't seem fine," Jon says. "What if you hurt your back or something and you don't even realize? What if you have a concussion? You should come stay with us tonight. Just in case."

"I have tomorrow off," Emily says, cheerfully. "I'll stay up with you."

"I can take a sick day," Jon says.

"Not sure why you think I'm the one with the head injury," Lovett says. "Seriously, I'm—" he rubs his forehead. "I'm sorry I interrupted, you were clearly on a roll, just—"

Emily glances at Jon, and then pushes past Lovett into his apartment. He tips his head back, giving in, and lets Jon slip past him as well. "On a roll," Emily says, as Lovett closes the door and leans against it, arms crossed across his chest. "You could say that. It was getting pretty hot. Did you think so? You can hear pretty much everything, right? That's what you used to complain about."

"He doesn't complain much anymore," Jon points out, joining in like they're doing a bit. "He's been pretty quiet about it. Maybe he bought noise-cancelling headphones."

"Maybe," Emily says. "He's not wearing headphones now, though. And he did think we were on a roll. Don't you think that suggests he was listening, Jon?"

Jon's bathrobe is loose; half his chest is showing, and it's suddenly difficult for Lovett to look away from it, from the hollow of his throat and the hair at his sternum. "I didn't mean to," Lovett attempts, weakly. "Listen—I'll buy noise-cancelling headphones. Tomorrow. I'll go out and get them at a real store instead of ordering them. Well, I'll postmates them, but it's the same—"

"That's okay," Emily says. "We like it."

"You—" Lovett stops, swallows, reaches for the glass and finds it, of course, empty. 

"The real question," Emily says, "Is—do you like it? Hearing us? Maybe," she coughs and turns to Jon. "Hearing us talk about you?"

Forget water; he needs an oxygen mask. "I—" He wants to ask if they're upset, except that it's incredibly clear they aren't. "Is this—are you hitting on me?"

"Yup," Jon says. "For like two months. For a smart guy, you're kinda dense about some stuff."

Lovett splutters. "Excuse me, I didn't think I was getting seduced by a man and his _wife_! That's not—who would think that?"

"It's 2017." Jon shrugs. "So—" His confidence drops away, just a smidge. It's almost hotter, seeing him nervous. "What do you think?"

He glances between them, trying to process. "I think—I don't have sex with women," and it feels mean to say it, but pretty necessary.

Emily grins at him. "How about with a woman in the room?"

"That ... could ... yeah," Lovett says, because something about it is stupidly, viscerally hot. He can't picture it with any other woman he knows, but Emily—Jon's _wife_ , watching Jon and him— "Yeah."

"Good," they each say, layered over the other, and then laugh. "Jinx," Emily adds, and Jon mimes zipping his lips. "So—how's Friday for you?"

"Uh," Lovett says, trying to gesture in a way that takes in the bathrobes, the path to his bedroom, the way he can see Jon's cock is half-hard through the fabric of his robe. 

"We're all pretty soused," Emily says. "But if you want to listen in, you know, enjoy it." She winks at him. "See you Friday."

"Uh, yeah. Friday. Yeah." Lovett lets them out, locks the door, and goes straight back to his bedroom to listen.

***

Midday Friday, when Lovett can't stand it anymore, he texts Emily. _You can just tell me if you were kidding. I don't even remember anything, I was drunk._

She texts back almost immediately. _Nope. How's 8 for you? Or do you want to have dinner with us first?_

He turns his phone over and over in his hand. _No thanks,_ he texts. _8 is good._ He doesn't think he'll be able to eat. Which is—ridiculous. It's not his first rodeo. Well, it's maybe his first rodeo in the one sense of Emily being there, but it's not like he hasn't done his share of—he was twenty-two in New York City, for fuck's sake, he's done some wild shit, and none of it made his heart pound like this. 

It's just— _them_. They're so—he sometimes thinks jealously of how lucky their kids are going to be, and then tries to repress those thoughts. They're so loving and open and easy with each other, and they've let him in so easily, like it's nothing, like throwing the door open to their home and their kitchen and their _bed_ , apparently, doesn't scare them at all.

He wonders if he should bring a bottle of wine.

***

He runs into them on the stairs at 7:58. 

"Right," Jon says, starting to laugh. "We didn't really agree on a venue, did we?"

"Yours," Lovett says. "Mine is a wreck."

"We like your wreck," Emily says, but she starts leading them back up the stairs. Lovett catches the way Jon's watching her hips sway. That—the way they never get tired of looking at each other, or take each other for granted. He envies that. 

"You want a beer?" Jon asks, as they walk into the apartment. 

Lovett doesn't, but it seems like the thing to do. He shrugs.

"He wants to kiss you," Emily says, interrupting them, and it's not entirely clear who she means. It's true about Lovett, for sure, so he isn't going to say anything. He hopes it's true about Jon.

Jon's maybe more responsive to his wife's suggestions than Lovett is, or maybe it's easier for him, in his own space, to cross the kitchen and walk up to Lovett. "Okay?" he breathes, and Lovett leans up on his toes to reach Jon's mouth.

"Oh, yeah," Emily murmurs beside him, and that makes it better, somehow, her approval and her interest. That she wants this—that they both want him, like this. Like Jon's warm mouth on his, Jon's big hand holding his jaw, fingers threaded into his hair. Lovett's at risk of teetering, from the stance and from how much it's making his knees melt to feel Jon's teeth on his lips. 

He sweeps his hands up Jon's chest, because he's been wanting to touch it since the first time he came up to yell at them. Especially since the second time, when they'd stopped in the middle to answer the door, Jon in a towel and Emily in a sheet, both of them flushed and wide-eyed and shiny with sweat. _Athletic_ sex, he'd realized. That explained some of the volume.

He wonders if Jon wants to be athletic tonight. He thinks, running his hands over Jon's biceps, that Jon might be able to hoist him up against a wall and fuck him, if he really wanted to. 

"His neck is really sensitive," Emily says, conspiratorially, and this time Lovett knows it's for him. He breaks off the kiss and gets his teeth on Jon's throat instead, nipping until he finds a place on the side that makes Jon gasp and make one of those sweet noises that he's heard through the ceiling. He thought those were Emily, actually, but apparently not.

He latches on there, biting and sucking. He hopes Jon can wear collared shirts this week, because he's not giving up this advantage now that he has it. Jon's fingers are tight on his waist, Jon's breath hot on his ear, and he doesn't let go until Emily says, "We should go lie down."

"Uh, yeah," Jon says, and he sounds dazed. Lovett's not sure if that makes him feel more smug or turned on. Maybe equal parts of both.

Emily catches Lovett's eye and grins at him. She's still looking at him when she says, "Jon, babe—take your shirt off first."

Lovett really, really appreciates Emily's vision. She can direct his sex scenes anytime. 

Jon peels it off, and Lovett stares as much as he wants to. Which is not a small amount. He glances up to see Jon wearing a rueful grin. "Not bad," Lovett tells him, trying to keep it measured, keep the arousal out of his voice. "I mean, if that's what you're into."

"And you are," Emily says, like it's a set conclusion. Lovett supposes it is.

Jon leans in to kiss Lovett again, fast, and then starts pushing him into the back of the apartment. Lovett's never been to their bedroom; he's not surprised to learn it's decorated in true blues, wood grain, and simple stripes, like they've bought out a West Elm. They probably did. He decides to withhold his commentary for the moment.

"I'll just be over here," Emily says, climbing up to perch cross-legged in the top corner of the bed. She shifts up to pull her loose pajama pants down—not off, just down lower on her hips, and Lovett doesn't know why but he has a couple of guesses.

He focuses back on Jon. "So—what are you into?"

Jon blinks, like he's never been asked that before. "Uh—"

"You really are straight," Lovett tells him. "I mean, okay, demonstrably not, but—never mind. Can I blow you?"

Jon doesn't need to hesitate on this one. "Yes. That would be—yes. Sure. I mean, do you want—I could do you first?" It's even sincere, not like he's just trying to sound like a good guy.

"Don't try to delay me, I've been thinking about this for months." Lovett climbs up on the bed and gestures for Jon to follow him. "Come on, this counts as delaying."

"You know, you are exactly what I thought you'd be like in bed," Emily muses. "It's sort of soothing."

"Soothing is not usually what anyone says about me," Lovett says. "If he's laying here, can you see okay?"

"Oh, yeah," she laughs. "Yeah, don't worry about me at all. You just, uh, do your thing." 

Lovett can do that. He leans up to kiss Jon's neck again, and runs his nails down Jon's chest to see if he likes it. He does; he shivers and pushes up towards Lovett's hands, so Lovett does it again, and then wraps his fingers into the front of Jon's waistband and yanks upward until his ass comes momentarily off the bed.

"Oh, God," Jon says. "Is that a—what does that do?"

Lovett shrugs. "Makes you hot for it." Jon raises his eyebrows in acknowledgment and licks his lips. Lovett wants to lick them, too, but he's on a mission.

Jon's got on a button fly, and Lovett pauses between each button, just long enough to make Jon squirm. "Oh, did you want something?" he says when, during one pause, Jon makes a pitiful noise.

"Lovett, you're even more fun than we'd hoped," Emily says, smirking. He grins at her and pops another button. 

Jon's not getting in his way; his hands are clawed into the duvet. Lovett can respect that, as a part-time pillow queen himself. He's prepared to do the work right now, because he really fucking wants Jon's cock in his mouth. 

He's pleased to find Jon is wearing slightly nicer briefs than he was expecting—in a color, even, and well-fitted. He presses his face into Jon's open fly and breathes him in.

Jon smells like sex, spicy and warm and with a hint of bleach. Maybe that's the jeans. It makes Lovett harder in his own pants, and he lets himself rock gently against the mattress, eyes closed, face against Jon's lower belly. 

"This is some really good torture," Jon says, and he does sound strained. Lovett kind of digs it. He plants his chin on Jon's hip and looks up at him.

"Hi," he says, and Jon manages a laugh. "Nice to be here."

"Yeah, um, nice to have you," Jon says. He pauses, one corner of his mouth quirking up. "I mean, I assume it will be. Eventually."

Emily laughs, and Lovett turns to press his smile into Jon's belly. He kisses the soft skin over his hip, where the jeans have been folded back. He folds them back some more, and Jon lifts his hips. Lovett supposes he'll take that hint.

He yanks Jon's jeans down and is slightly more careful with his briefs, only because he doesn't know yet how much Jon is up for having his dick slapped around. He hopes he'll get to find that out at some point. For now he releases it gently and then nuzzles back down, breathing in and rubbing his cheek on it. "Oh," Jon says, faintly. "Okay."

Emily says, more distinctly, "What a very pretty picture you are."

Lovett can't deny he likes to be praised; he smiles, and lets the bulge of his cheek rub against Jon. He shaved at 7:42, so he's fairly certain he's baby-smooth right now. 

"Is this—a thing?" Jon asks. He sounds nervous and excited all at once. Lovett identifies with that, although he's a lot more of the latter now he's in fully familiar territory. Nice, friendly territory, the kind of well-formed, well-sized territory he could set up a summer home in. Metaphorically speaking. 

He turns and runs the tip of his nose up the length of Jon's cock. "Nope," he answers, belatedly. "Just enjoying myself."

"I like it," Emily says. "Jon does that to me all the time." Lovett can't really picture what she means and isn't sure he wants to try, but he likes the acknowledgment, at least.

He also just wants to taste Jon, now. He dips the tip of his tongue into Jon's slit to hear him gasp, and, leaning on one hand, lifts Jon's cock up until he can get his mouth around it. Jon makes another of those sweet sounds. Lovett likes them; he wants to make Jon sound like that all night. Well, he wants to make Jon sound like that until Lovett's tired, and then have Jon touch him all night. Same difference.

"He likes it wet," Emily prompts, which Lovett would have guessed, but he likes the idea of her telling him Jon's secrets. He sort of wants to know Jon's secrets about her, not to try, just to know, to share between the three of them. He wonders, but doesn't look to find out, if she's touching herself. 

He lets it get wet, spit dripping down to his hand until every stroke is slick with it. "Oh," Jon says again, loud now, loud like Lovett's heard through the ceiling. He hopes the other neighbors hear it, too. He wants credit for this, for making Jon gasp and grab at the duvet for purchase. 

It's a moderate rhythm, the kind he could manage for a while, the kind Jon might be able to take for a while. He wants to build this up for Jon, and for Emily; he doesn't want it to be over in a flash. Jon's closer than he'd have expected, though. Lovett flatters himself, in his head: _he wants this a lot. He wants me a lot._

Jon's starting to get _loud_ , seriously going. Lovett's realizing he assumed most of this noise was Emily because he's not used to men being so vocal in bed, and it's fucking hot. Everything he does makes Jon react, and if Jon doesn't, it must be time to try something else. 

It's a fucking revelation in responsiveness, and it makes him want to try everything, to see how Jon reacts. It makes him, though he wasn't going to, slip one of his spit-wet fingers down to pet the soft skin above Jon's hole and, when that nets him a pleased teeth-kissing sound, lower. 

"Oh God," Jon says, and Emily says, her voice thready suddenly, "Is he—he loves that, Lovett, don't hold back." 

_Good_ , Lovett thinks, and lets his finger push in the way it seems to want to, Jon opening up easily for him.

"He wants you to fuck him," Emily says, and Jon makes a pained groan that Lovett understands is meant for her, not for him. "He wants to fuck you. It's all we've been able to think about for weeks. Longer. I don't—" her voice breaks, and she lets out a sharp breath. "We hoped you, you were listening to us. That you wanted to be up here with us."

He doesn't want to stop, so he flashes her a thumbs up, and she laughs, jerkily. He doesn't have to look, now, to be sure she's touching herself. Watching him, watching them, and getting off on it. Lovett didn't picture, before this, before them, ever getting harder because a female friend is getting off on watching him, but he clearly didn't anticipate any of the sudden changes in his worldview. 

"Lovett," Jon says, and it's a request, it's on the verge of begging. "Give me—something more, please." Lovett can do that. He can suck harder, speed up, and he can curl his finger in and up until Jon outright squeaks, and Emily giggles.

"That's it," Emily says, a smile in her voice. "That's—make him come, Lovett, you can—fuck, this is hot." The bed's moving more than he's making it and he thinks _that's her, that's how hot she finds this, she's jerking it that hard, or ... whatever_ and it makes him want to get Jon off even more than he already does. He wonders what else she wants to see. He wonders if he'd like watching them, maybe, the way he's unexpectedly come to love hearing them.

He stops wondering anything, because Jon's about to come, and he wants to feel every bit of it. 

This is the only time Jon goes silent, and now Lovett experiences why that is; because he's holding his breath, tensing his muscles, fighting toward or against it. Lovett can't tell which. The result is the same: he comes, like that, tense and still, and then all his breath comes out in a long gasp and a blissful moan. 

Lovett's going to need to hear Emily's suite of sex sounds, now; almost all of the ones he thought were hers, aren't. 

Most of Jon's come drips out of Lovett's mouth, back onto his cock and down Lovett's chin. Lovett licks his lips and lets Jon see him like that, because he knows he's going to get a good reaction out of it. "Oh, Jesus fuck," Jon says, half under his breath. Lovett grins at him, and wipes his chin.

"So," Lovett says. "What are you into?"

"This," Jon says, fervently, which still isn't what Lovett was asking, but fuck, he'll take it. "Can I—can I touch you? For now? I want to—I want to do everything, but for right now, can I, I want to touch you."

Lovett's not about to object to that, especially when "everything" might be on the table for later. And it's fucking Friday night, the weekend stretching out before them. There's just so much possibility in the air. "Yeah," he says, and climbs up over Jon. "Touch me."

Jon's hands don't go to his cock, the way he was expecting. They slide up under his shirt, tracing his back and his sides, ticklishly light until Lovett squirms. "Sorry," Jon breathes, and presses harder, stroking Lovett's skin until it drags under the pads of his fingers. 

"Kiss him," Emily suggests. She sounds drowsy now, lax, and Lovett risks a glance over to find her hands laid across her stomach. A few fingers on one hand are shiny. He smiles at her, and she smiles back, looking almost drunk, the way Jon looks, sated and pleased.

Lovett's about ready to feel like that, but Jon's still petting his belly and his shoulders like they've got hours. "I just blew you," Lovett says. "I don't know if you know this, but that's a turn-on for me. I'm not saying this isn't a very nice, uh, sensual thing you're doing, but if you could just give me a handjob now, that would be terrific."

Emily and Jon both start laughing, too hard, like he's the funniest person they've ever met. It's flattering as hell; it's long been one of his favorite things about them. It also is not a handjob. 

He leans back, away from Jon's trailing hands, and opens his jeans, pulls his cock out. "I can do it if you're—oh, fuck, okay," as Jon lets out a rumble from deep in his throat and knocks Lovett's hand out of the way. "Yes, fine, all yours," Lovett tells him, but Jon's fucking communing with his dick, staring at the way he's fisting it.

Well. Lovett's not one to get between a man and his objects of worship, especially when that object is his cock.

"Hmm," Emily says, a little closer to a dozing noise than anything else. She's still watching, when he looks, tilted onto one elbow. When his head turns, she says, "You look good like this. With Jon touching you." 

He manages a fraction of a nod in acknowledgment, because he isn't sure how else to deal with the strangeness of this, the strangeness of how much he likes it. It would be easier if Emily were some neutral he was putting up with to fuck Jon, he thinks—differently weird, but not the kind of thing that makes his brain spin. This, the way her involvement makes him want to show off, to push up into Jon's grip, is something else. 

Jon's doing everything Lovett needs, and nothing he hates; he's steady and firm and he's spit-slicked his hand at some point, which Lovett is annoyed to have missed. It's simple perfection, from Lovett's perspective. Screw the flourishes, when it comes to handjobs. Friction and wet and warm and this absurdly gorgeous man staring fixedly at his cock like it holds the secrets to the universe: nothing could be better.

"He wants you to come on him," Emily murmurs. "If you want. Anywhere."

 _Anywhere_ —Lovett can picture what that means, but he wants it just like this, over Jon's belly and his chest. He wants it a fucking lot, now that she's said it. He wants the rest, too, whatever dirty things they've talked about. Jon blowing him until he comes on Jon's face; maybe, if they've watched the right porn, Lovett or Emily getting Jon so close that a splash of Lovett's come on his cock makes him come, too. Maybe Lovett coming all over his hole and pushing back into him while he's still hard. 

Lovett's always thought of himself as vers in theory, but he has a growing suspicion that this, if they keep doing it, may turn out to be the practical application. 

"I do," Jon says, and Lovett drops out of his daydreaming. "I do want—want you to come on me, Lovett."

"Gonna," Lovett says, the only word he has the breath for. His hips started moving at some point without his notice, and he and Jon are working together now to get him off. 

He leans down to kiss Jon, because that's how he wants to come, with Jon's tongue in his mouth and Jon's hand on his cock and Emily watching them with approval, with _arousal_. 

It's good, too good. He loses the kiss, nearly loses his balance, and tucks his forehead onto Jon's shoulder to watch Jon jerk him through it, come splashing on Jon's chest. It looks fucking good, and he's probably blocking both of their views. He makes himself sit back, jerking the last of it out himself, so they can see. 

"Fuck," Emily says. "That's just right, Lovett."

He wanted to hear that from her maybe more than he wants the look of pleasure on Jon's face, the lust that promises more to come. "This is weird," he says, and then, when he sees two faces fall, rushes to add, "but I like it."

"Me too," Jon says. 

"Stay for breakfast," Emily offers. "We'll make you waffles."

"I do like waffles." Lovett's still on his heels, still fully dressed with his dick out, still feeling weird-but-good. 

"We know you do," Jon says, and puts his hands on Lovett's hips. "So—"

"Yeah," Lovett says. "Sure. Thanks for the invite. Both invites. Thanks for all the invites since I came up to yell at you, I guess."

Emily grins at him, and at her husband. "Oh—the pleasure's all ours."

Lovett snorts, and smiles, and demands a spare toothbrush. They laugh, and bustle through their night routine with him like it's nothing to include him. Like it's easy. Like he's welcome. 

A person could get used to this, he decides. _I'm going to get used to this, if I can._

"Good life lesson about yelling at your neighbors," he murmurs, when they're tucked into bed and most of the way toward sleep. "Passive-aggressive notes wouldn't have gotten me here."

"Mm-hm," Emily says. Her hand is warm on his back, and between one breath and the next, he's asleep.


End file.
